"Promise me you'll behave," Pamela said, fussing over the petticoats of the dress she'd forced Sam to put on. Similar to her vintage aesthetic, Pamela had dressed her daughter in a taffeta pink, silky dress with poofy sleeves, complete with a flowy hem that stopped mid-calf. Her hair had been curled overnight with vintage hair rollers, which made for a restless sleep. Her toes were squished uncomfortably into modest white heels. To complement the look, Pamela had added elbow-length white gloves, in addition to a pearl necklace that dangled around her neck.
"Sam?" Jeremy Manson prompted, nervously pawing at the lapels of his own pearly white suit.
"Sure," Sam said dryly. "I'll be the death of the party."
She was still salty over missing the Abominatrix the previous night. Their trip to the art gallery had been less than exciting; most of the work featured had been bland, overly-stylized, and pretentious, local works that lacked any of the beauty and introspective of works by older artists, like Picasso or Dali. All in all, a poor substitute for the new roller coaster.
"Samantha." Pamela's reproach was sharp while she adjusted Jeremy's polka-dotted tie. "Remember, if you don't promise to behave, I will reinstate that restraining order against the Fenton boy, do you understand?"
"Yes, Mom," Sam sighed with a frown, her hot pink lipstick tasting bitter.
Pamela sighed in turn. "Promise me, Samantha."
"Okay, Mom. I promise to behave." She broke into a grin, earning a suspicious look from her mother.
"Our growth will be exponential if we merge with Vlad Co.," Pam reminded her. "Aren't you thrilled?"
"No. I don't trust Vlad."
"He's Danny's godfather!"
"So?"
Pam sighed explosively. "Let's go, darling," she said, hooking her elbow through Jeremy's. "You'd better be polite when addressing him, Samantha."
Sam glared at her mother's back before following her into Vlad's Victorian-styled ballroom. Her heels clicked on spotless marble floors, her gait awkward without her combat boots. She looked up into the vaulted ceilings, covered with ornate curlicue patterns and illuminated by a triplet of crystal chandeliers. Maybe I'll do a swing dance on those, she thought, smirking at the memory of her antics in Princess Dorothea's realm.
Scanning the circumference of the room, she took in a mass of stuffy socialites who were drifting about. Most of them were already huddled into eclectic groups, nursing glasses of bubbly champagne and laughing uproariously at unheard jokes. She looked towards the front, spying an orchestra on a platform, practicing idly in their chairs while they waited for the signal. None of them matched the boy in particular that she was looking for-the ghostly presence that would comfort her while she mingled.
She glanced at her parents, who were already greeting an older couple effusively. "Mom, can I go eat some fruit?"
"Not yet, sweetie, you just got here," her mother chirped. "Come say hi to Mr. and Mrs. Moore!"
Sam pattered over in her heels. "Hi." Then she looked at her mother again. "I'm hungry."
"Hi there, hungry! I'm Paul!" Mr. Moore grinned, sparking laughter from the other adults.
"And I'm Diane," the wife greeted.
"You're funny, Mr. Moore," Sam deadpanned. "Mind if I go eat?"
"Samantha," her mother chided.
The girl curtsied, inwardly shriveling up as she did so. "Pardon me; I'm not me when I'm hungry."
Seemingly oblivious to the tension, the Moore's laughed.
"Please may I grab a bite, Mom?" She asked yet again.
"Very well," her mother replied, affording the couple an apologetic look. "Hurry back, please."
"Yes, Mother," Sam intoned sweetly, scampering away to the far east side of the ballroom. Feeling her mother's penetrative stare on her back, she almost broke into a sweat.
Weaving through a mishmash of socialites, she reached a long row of tables adorned with gold-trimmed cloth. Alighting on the chocolate fountain, she stabbed a strawberry with a toothpick and dipped it underneath the downpour. She almost took a bite when a familiar voice startled her.
"Hi, Hungry." Danny's breath stirred her curls.
Sam yelped, swallowing it down halfway to avoid drawing any more attention. "Are we addressing each other with Dad jokes now, Inviso-Bill?"
Danny groaned. "Let's not."
"Thought so."
Sam noticed a few passerby looking at her quizzically. Biting back a sigh, Sam fished her phone out of her crossbody and held it to her ear.
"So what are we waiting for?"
"Why, the orchestra, of course."
She could feel him smiling, even if she couldn't see it.
"Oh, you need dramatic effect. Fair enough." Sam smiled, only for it to deflate when a shadow fell over her. She looked up to be met with none other than Vlad towering over her, a malicious grin on his face.
"Why, Samantha."
She bristled at the use of her full name. "What."
"You should be mingling," he said. "Instead of dallying at the buffet and fiddling with your phone. Don't you know that's unbecoming for an heiress?"
"Listen... These heels may not be steel-toed but they're still pointy."
"HA!" he mock-laughed, "Teenagers. How soon they forget they're tax dependents."
Sam growled but didn't reply. Looking over at the center of the ballroom, she spied her mother entertaining a circle of guests. A wave of nausea hit her.
"Let's get this over with," she muttered, eating her strawberry whole and brushing past Vlad with barely a glance. Hopefully, she could reconvene with Danny later without him hovering over her.
"Welcome back, dear," her mother chirped when she reached the cluster of socialites. "Oh, you brought Mr. Masters with you!"
"I did?" She looked over, realizing he'd been tailing her like an unlucky shadow. "Oh. I did."
"Pamela, Jeremy!" Vlad greeted, taking one of Pamela's gloved hands and kissing the fingers. "It's so nice to see you all together. Especially you, Samantha."
"Yeah, sure is great to be here," Sam deadpanned. "I appreciate the Gothic Revival architecture."
Jeremy laughed nervously. "That's a high compliment from her."
"Thank you, Samantha." Vlad grinned; her scowl deepened. "I'm glad you've finally started learning the ropes of your family's company."
"Believe me, so are we," Pam added, looking down at her daughter with a rather condescending look. "Much better than partaking in all that rubbish teens relish these days."
"Dumpty Humpty isn't rubbish!" Sam snapped, referring to the concert she sorely missed. "They sold out their seats."
"Forgive me for sounding, what is it the kids say–'out of touch'–but what is this, uh, 'Dumpy Humpy?'" Vlad asked.
Sam's eye twitched.
"Oh, just some stupid band my daughter likes," Pamela said dismissively. "And if you ask me, they're nothing, but a perversion of a Brother's Grimm classic for the mass appeal of immature, uncultured youth."
"Hear, hear," Jeremy said, tipping his flute glass to Pamela.
"That's what Disney does!" she retorted, absolutely livid. "Dumpty Humpty respects the source material, instead of watering it down to flowery, kiddie tripe!"
Pamela fixed her with a dazzling, threatening smile. "Oh, Samantha… You'll grow out of this phase."
Her daughter inhaled, briefly shutting her eyes. 'Dare I say it?'
"You still haven't grown out of yours."
Pamela barked out a laugh, its sharpness cutting through the air like a knife. "That's because I'm an adult, dear."
"Could've fooled me."
"I agree, Samantha," Vlad said, grin widening with sadistic pleasure. "She looks like she could be your sister."
Pamela giggled. "Why thank you, Vlad."
Sam covered her mouth, trying not to gag. She glanced briefly over to Jeremy, who awkwardly sipped from his flute glass.
"It's also a relief to see you away from that young Danny Fenton."
She glanced over to the buffet. Had he lingered there or followed to eavesdrop?
"You mean your godson?" she asked, violet eyes locking on him with unspoken aggression. "Danny is the kindest, bravest, most selfless boy I ever met."
Vlad smirked, his eyebrows rising slightly. "My, my. Such passion."
A blush dusted the girl's cheeks. She side-eyed the buffet again, suddenly hoping that he wasn't eavesdropping. "Yeah, well, I—"
"Cheese cubes, Ms. Manson?"
Sam turned. A butler had appeared at her side, offering a platter filled with swiss, cheddar, and provolone cheese cubes, each one skewered with toothpicks. She plucked a toothpick from one of the pieces, its end wrapped in purple cellophane.
"Vladson deli picks, Samantha," he said, eyes gleaming. "What do you think?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You used redwood. Specifically sequoia sempivirens, no?"
"Samantha…" Pam picked a swiss cheese cube off the platter, warning lacing her tone.
"Oh yes," Vlad replied, proud as ever, "An excellent choice of wood, no? Highly resistant to water and decay."
"Redwoods are endangered prehistoric trees." She twirled the toothpick in her fingers. "They're not exactly a renewable resource."
"Those trees are gigantic, however, averaging thirty feet wide and over a hundred feet tall," the millionaire spoke with an air of grandiosity, as if knowing these facts somehow made him superior to his listeners. "Do you know how many toothpicks one tree can produce? Can you do the math?"
Sam's nostrils flared. "It takes hundreds of years for them to reach that size."
"Samantha, please…" Sensing a rant on the horizon, Pamela placed a gloved hand on the crown of her head. "Our customers are entitled to the best quality."
"Oh really?" A frown etched her features as she looked up at her mother. "Then why is the cheese sourced from 'farm factories' with a track history of fecal contamination?"
"Those were minor mistakes," Jeremy argued, pointedly swallowing the bite of cheddar from his orange-tipped toothpick. "Accidents happen, Sam, but the risk is negligible."
The girl disregarded her father completely. "I take it you're also feeding the cows corn instead of grass? Can't imagine a lot of nutrition being derived from a diet of cheap starch."
"It's business, Samantha." Vlad straightened, puffing his chest out. "Maximizing our profits while preserving the taste."
Pam nodded, having swallowed her bite of cheese too. "Tastes like the finest quality to me."
"I apologize on behalf of my daughter." Jeremy looked askance at her. "She's passionate about the environment."
"Oh, it's quite alright. Like I said, it's nice to see her finally taking an interest in the family business. Eventually she'll come around to the reality of profit margins." He cocked his head to the side. "Speaking of which, what do you think of 'Vladson Incorporated?' I thought about 'Manson-Masters,' but that wouldn't fit on the box, and 'Vlad '-" He smirked, glancing away. "-I'm saving for something else."
Sam pinched the toothpick between her lips. "Poignant."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He nodded to her parents then. "It's been lovely chatting with you, but I've got more guests to entertain."
Sam glared at his retreating backside, neglecting a polite goodbye.
She'd been shadowing her mother when the orchestra started. Percussions rippled through the ballroom, the string section and wind sections following suit. When Sam smiled in anticipation, her mother mistook it for enjoyment of the music.
"See? Isn't this lovely?" Pamela asked. Grinning at the guests, she squeezed Sam's shoulder.
Don't touch me, she wanted to scream, but her smile didn't falter. "Yes, Mom."
"Much more sophisticated than that Humpster Dumpster screaming into a microphone, wouldn't you say?" She finished off her remark with a fluttery, high-pitched giggle.
She didn't answer, ears grating at the sound of her mom's laugh. Sensing a crescendo in the orchestra's song, she looked up to the ceiling. C'mon, Danny. She winced slightly at Pamela's manicure piercing her poofy sleeve, holding her in place. Like she feared Sam would run or bite when unleashed.
Approaching the end, a percussive bang resounded. Apparently Danny took that as his signal, spawning a torrential rain of ectoplasm seemingly out of nowhere. Ecto-goo splattered on her face, soaked her frilly pink dress. She wiped at her eye-line with her glove, taking in the scene before her. Once dazzling socialites were coated in ectoplasm, dispersing in panic to avoid the noxious green rain. She couldn't help the glow of pride at Danny's perfect plan. He had taken it upon himself to contain an obscene amount of ectoplasm within the thermos, projectile launching it onto the unsuspecting ballroom guests. While her parents may suspect her involvement, nothing could be traced back to her.
Sam brushed her hair out of her face, spraying droplets of ectoplasm with the movement. She glanced at her mother, who had been frantically dabbing at her face with a handkerchief.
"What is this?!" she crowed. "What's all over me?!"
"Ghost goo, looks like." She watched the socialites scattering towards the corridors, holding back a triumphant smile. "Don't worry, Mom. You can bleach the stains out."
"How did you do this?" Pam grabbed her arm, swiping ectoplasm out of her eyes and bangs. With her captive audience dispersed, her tone dropped to its normal pitch–her most threatening levels.
"I didn't do anything." She looked to Jeremy for support, who'd been smearing his face further with a plasma-logged, silken handkerchief. "Right, Dad?"
Her mother's grip tightened, almost enough to bruise.
"Samantha," Jeremy said, grimacing at his ruined cloth before locking eyes on her, "You promised to behave."
"Behave how, exactly?"
"Like a lady!" Pamela roared.
"Which lady? Joan Jett? Rosie the Riveter? Hua Mulan? Ooo, how about Ember McClain?"
Pamela screeched, taking her by the arm and hauling her out of the ballroom. She stumbled after her in accursed heels, glancing at the ceiling where her spectral spectator may be. Trailing behind her, Jeremy nearly slipped in a puddle of ectoplasm. She barely withheld a giggle.
"Mrs. Manson!" Her mother stopped in her tracks, turning slowly to face Vlad, who'd been striding to catch up with them.
"Please accept my apologies. I don't know what's happened here." He extended a hand before realizing it was splattered with ectoplasm, then clearing his throat and awkwardly retracting it. "Seems like a nasty prank…"
Pamela stiffened, exchanging a look with Jeremy. "Indeed. A nasty prank."
"If I may talk to the two of you in private?" Vlad asked, accusatory blue eyes falling on Sam.
She tugged on her mother's arm. "No. Mom, let's go."
But Jeremy cut in, "Go to the car and wait for us, Sam."
"Mom, I don't trust him." Another insistent tug, but Pamela wrested her arm out of Sam's grasp.
"Go to the car, Sam." Her lips were pursed; her forehead wrinkles made a rare appearance.
"But—"
"Do what she says," Jeremy snapped.
She growled low in her throat, eyeing Vlad with open disdain before reluctantly withdrawing. Once she turned a corner, Sam lingered by the wall, though not without tapping her heels on the floor a few times to feign a receding gait. Then she took the heels off entirely, intending to break into a soundless barefoot run and disappear around the corner, should her parents approach.
"…so sorry again about what's happened…"
She leaned against the wall, cocking her ear to catch snippets of the conversation.
"…won't make any allegations, but something similar occurred when I last invited the Fentons to our college reunion…"
Hearing the faux-apologetic tone from Vlad, she ground her teeth.
Pamela gasped—too dramatically for Sam's taste. Her teeth ground more, chewing on unreleased rants.
"What? What happened then?"
"…long story short, Jack Fenton vandalized my property and attacked several people…"
A contemptuous sniff from her mother. "I can't believe you used to socialize with him."
"Well, we all make mistakes in our youth. I just wish I could convince young Daniel to see things my way. His father is genuinely unstable. It's only a matter of time before the little badger winds up paying for it like I did."
Sam thought about throwing a heel at his forehead. Really really thought about it. If only her parents weren't blocking the shot.
"What do you mean?" Jeremy asked.
"Well, you see, during our brief friendship in college…" Vlad's voice shrank to a low murmur. She couldn't make it out, but she caught the gist. "...never apologized for it either. Blamed me for standing in the way, actually. I tried to mend things at our last college reunion, but you see how that turned out…"
More scandalized remarks from her mother that she could barely make out. She grappled at her curly, gooey hair.
"…While this prank may be harmless, what are the implications? What could it escalate to? I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't accuse without evidence, but none of these ghostly hijinks ever happen unless the Fentons are involved somehow…"
"…been concerned for a while now about her association with that boy…" Her father chiming in, emboldened by champagne. "…seems like a bad influence… but she'd never forgive us if we…"
She couldn't listen anymore. Turning the corner, she padded softly through the empty corridors. What's he trying to do anyway? She reflected on his jibe earlier.
"Teenagers! How soon they forget they're tax dependents."
Again she growled, low in her throat. Her growls lacked gravel, were more susurrous like a harsh wind.
Dependent… I don't like that word.